TIRED
THURSDAY, JULY 22, 1779
In midsummer, flowering begins. The kernels are soft but dry. The dark green plants begin to fade. Soon they will explode into a golden amber. The time for harvest is near.
An elbow jabs my arm.
Where am I?
Ah, yes. Here. With Scar. He’s sleeping … fitfully.
I close my eyes and listen to the whip-poor-wills calling to each other overhead. Or are those mockingbirds just pretending to be whip-poor-wills? Mockingbirds love mimicking other birds. I whistle the three notes of a chickadee, “Dee, dee, dee,” and wait. The mockingbirds whistle back, “Dee, dee, dee,” making me smile. I will rise soon. I will rise and pick up my grass sickle and finish edging this cornfield.
Scar mumbles.
But first I will help Scar.
I’m lifting his head to give him a drink from the canteen when I jerk awake. I’m not in my cornfield and I’m not helping Scar. I’m dreaming. And thirsty. And soaked through with sweat. I open and close my eyes several times, trying to unglue myself from this strange world between dream and reality. But when I try to move, fever rushes to my head and I give up, dropping back onto the soft earth with a sigh. I’m tired. Too tired.
“Scar.” It hurts my head to speak.
“Noah.” He answers from far away, though his body is lying next to mine.
Moving to comfort him, I catch hold of a piece of his shredded shirt, and then I slip back into sleep and away from him … or he from me.